For an eighteen year old fresh out of school, instead of going to University, I was hitting the world of the gainfully employed apprentice hairdresser, my new job was scary.
The guys that owned this high-end salon in a high-end part of Sydney's Eastern Suburbs were as alike as chalk and cheese, on the one hand, there was 'Blue', I don't know what his real name was, it's probably somewhere in my apprenticeship application. Blue is as 'ocker' as they come, he wears either khaki shorts and black singlet, or the full cami gear complete with a weapons belt with pouches in which he keeps his hairdryer, comb, brush and scissors. On his feet he wore, depending on the outfit, blunnies (Blundstone brand steel toe-capped elastic sided work boots, or combat boots. He called everyone 'mate', even the women.
On the other hand, there is Pierre, a terribly effete young man whose dress and attitude screamed out that he was as camp as a row of tents, everyone, regardless of gender or age, was 'Darling'.
I had to sign what was, essentially their version of the 'Official Secrets Act', promising not to divulge their secret.
Blue was the gay one while Pierre was as straight as they come and because the men felt comfortable leaving their loved ones in his hands, it was alleged that he was shagging himself silly. There seemed to be some sort of competition between his female clients to see who could hold on to his sexual attention the longest. I think the record sits at one month and the strange part about it is there is never any animosity when the woman in question loses her grasp on him.
The weird thing about Pierre, real name Peter, the product of a working-class western suburbs family, was that he had a live-in girlfriend who I would describe as 'drop dead gorgeous'. Libby was a petite blonde in all but one, or is that two, features. In the old pre-decimal measurements, she was a 32DD. Any resemblance to your common garden type dumb blonde was dispelled when you spoke with her. She was a university graduate with a Doctorate in Psychology. It was Libby who revealed the biggest secret of Salon Pierre, while Pierre didn't fuck anyone, other than Libby that is, such was his stud reputation that not one of his clients would ever admit to not getting beyond first base, if in fact, they got that far.
All of this was a part of the marketing strategy of Salon Pierre. Peter would show all his female clients a platonic good time in exchange for them spreading the word about the salon, for which they were paid a 'spotters fee'. The business thrived to the point that there were now, apart from Blue and Pierre, four full-time hair 'artistes' and three apprentices, and we were busy most of the time, especially on Fridays and Saturdays. Saturdays were usually reserved for weddings, where for an almost indecent fee, the full repertoire of the salon was used to create something special for the bride and her attendants.
Six months down the track I was called into the office, I thought for some sort of periodic review. This meeting was to change my world. "Tiffany, we have noticed something special about you."
"Special, in what way?" I thought of myself as 'ordinary'.
"We have noticed your make-up, it is a vision of understated perfection. Do you do this yourself or do you have someone do it for you?"
"It's all my own work. My mother is a make-up artist and she taught me. She works in television that is totally different to everyday use, the cameras play tricks with make-up and you have to understand that. With everyday make-up, you have to be aware of the differing lighting scenarios that the wearer has to be exposed to throughout the day."
"If we were to offer you a different position, as an add-on to your apprenticeship, would you be interested?"
"Yes, what exactly are we talking about?"
"You are aware that our core business revolves around the top end social scene, parties, balls and, in particular, weddings. If you can use your talents with these clients the job is yours."
So it was, many wedding parties later, I was introduced to the latest bride to be as 'Miss Tiffany', who would apply her knowledge of make-up to transform the client into the star of the day.
Some of the many transformations were a piece of cake, the lady in question had flawless skin and great bone structure, while others need half a tub of spakfilla to hide the pits and lines. Whatever the case, I had earned a reputation and a lot of extra money. The salon charged a substantial fee for my services and I received an equally substantial gratuity, I'm not allowed to call it a tip, far too gauche.
As most of my time was now involved in this aspect of the business, I had to ensure that I did enough hairdressing to keep up with the requirements of my apprenticeship.
Close to the end of my third year, I found myself in a dilemma. The bride to be, Sylvie Foreman, flinched as I began to remove a hefty layer of make-up so I could begin to perform my miracle, and a miracle it would be. The bruises were a couple of days old but the swelling had not yet gone down. "Who did this to you?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" She averted her face.
"Someone's been knocking you around. I hope it isn't the guy you're about to marry.'
Just before the floodgates opened she whispered. "It is, what am I going to do? I have to go through with this."
"Why do you have to do this?"
"It's a long story. Forget it, it's my problem."
"Come with me." I helped her to her feet, which must have hurt because she flinched again. Her three attendants had a puzzled expression on their faces, something that I thought wouldn't be too much of a stretch for them, as I stopped beside Pierre who was just finishing a client's hair. "Pierre, could we have a word with you?"
"Certainly Darlings, I won't be a minute."
I led Sylvie to the lunchroom and made her a coffee. "You're marrying Ranalph Jameson aren't you?" Pierre asked as he helped himself to a coffee.
"Yes," Sylvie whispered.
"I'm not surprised that Tiffany has asked for my advice, and give it I will, dump the bastard!"
"But I can't."
"Why not?" He asked. From what he said next he knew exactly why not. "It has something to do with your father?"
"You know about this, how?"
"In this business, we are the eyes and ears of the world Darling. I wouldn't worry too much about whatever hold he has over your father, After I speak to a friend of mine he will change his mind. Tiffany Darling would you go out and tell the girls that the wedding is off and they can go home, no charge for the treatment." Turning to Sylvie he said, "You will stay here for the duration and then we will find a place for you to stay until this dies down."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Let's just say that I am repaying a debt from years ago."
When I came back into the lunchroom Pierre told me to take Sylvie into the storeroom and stay with her. "You're expecting trouble, aren't you?"
"You could say that, don't worry, everything is under control." He left to attend to his next client.
"I should go home" Sylvie whispered. "I've caused you too much trouble already."
"Listen to me, if Pierre tells you that everything is under control you'd better believe it, I have yet to meet anyone who is more in control."
"How long do you think I'll have to stay here?"
"That depends on how long it takes for one of your bridesmaids to call Ranalph and tell him what's happened. Hopefully, it will give time for Pierre to make a few calls."
"Who to?"
"Ranalph had better hope that it's to the police because, if he calls some heavies that he knows, it's going to get very ugly indeed."
